


On your Shoulders

by TheArchaeologist



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Death, CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Drama, Feels, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Murder, Murder-Suicide, Suicide, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 20:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: Connor said he had discovered the location of Jericho. He was going undercover, and Hank shouldn’t worry about him.That was half an hour ago, and right now Jericho is on fire.





	On your Shoulders

It was nice to see the news was keeping up its job of being the worse fucking downer on the state of the world.

Sitting back into the cushions of the couch, dog strewn across his lap and a half-forgotten beer in his hand, Hank stews. The TV glows on the wall, the only source of light in the room, and muted characters of the press speak uselessly as humanity fucks up for the billionth time in their sorry excuse of existence. 

A man in a helicopter, Hank hadn’t bothered to pay attention to his name, mouths animatedly to a camera, holding his headpiece close to his ear. Outside thick pellets of snow gently rain, catching the violent air of the helicopter blades and vertexing out of shot.

Bright white glows deep orange.

Yawning loudly, Sumo stretches in contentment, grumbling as he readjusts his position and promptly dozes back off to sleep. Hank absently rubs the dog’s ear.

The channel cuts back to the news room with a woman sporting bleached hair and a facelift only a mother could love, the scene of the ship shrinking away to the top corner of the screen, banished from mainstream thought.

Across the bottom on the constantly updated banner it refreshes to include a small note on the army advancing towards the city to attempt to bring the situation under control. The next update is the weather. Hank’s fingertips feel numb.

Jericho is on fire.

And Jericho was where Connor had been heading, if his awkward text to Hank half an hour ago was anything to go by. It was followed by a lovely list of read but ignored messages from Hank, demanding to know where, how, and what did he mean he was going ‘undercover’?

His phone buzzes away on the armrest, but none of the calls are from Connor.

Sumo shuffles about again, rolling over like the giant moron that he is and staring up at a half-crushed Hank, legs in the air and cheeks falling back. Hank shoves him off his chest.

“Don’t suppose you would know what where the idiot would go, would you?” He asks uselessly. A horrible twist of _something_ pools in his gut, spreading like ants through his veins as he brings the bottle to his lips, taking a long swig. 

Tail wagging, Sumo slides gracelessly to the floor and trots over to his food bowl in the kitchen, turning back to look at Hank expectantly. 

“Yeah, great, thanks.” 

Sumo whines. Hank’s knees click as he stands, but he adds an extra scoop to the already filled bowl, because Sumo is getting old and fuck the vet.

Hours tick by, or they would if Hank owned an analog clock. Instead he is forced to rely on the little digital one on the news channel, which lacks any kind of second counter and leaves him counting the required sixty in his head as he finishes one bottle and starts on another. 

The TV time too fast, changing on fifty-eight seconds. 

Or Hank’s an old bastard and has become too slow, which is frankly fucking probable.

With a final longing buzz his phone vibrates itself off the couch, landing with what will likely turn out to be a very expensive crack. It still works when he picks it up though, so maybe he can live with it.

Thirteen missed calls from Fowler, five from Chris, and a single text from Gavin which is nothing more than the middle finger emoji. 

Not a peep from Connor, the prick.

More time passes, and Hank forces himself to stop counting. Instead he lets Sumo out to do his business, and then washes the dishes. That takes no more than thirty minutes, so he organises the living room. Twenty minutes. Fills Sumo’s water bowl. One minute, with the water running slow.

Jericho is nothing but a smoking husk now, surrounded by reporters and police.

He turns off his phone.

Sumo paws at his empty food bowl. 

It’s only when he stubs his toe against a chair at the kitchen table does Hank realise that he’s begun to pace. When that started, he has no idea, but up and down he goes, like a fucking zoo animal. Sumo joins him for a little while, as if this is a new kind of game, but the dog quickly tires and retreats to his bed, allowing Hank to continue his meaningless task alone.

And then, as if by goddamn magic, he’s in his car, driving through the streets of Detroit.

He might have locked the house, he might not, but Sumo can’t work doorknobs and anyone attempting to burgle him will only end up with a dumb dog, an old model TV and a few bottles of beer. 

The snow continues to fall, as predicted by weather reports, and the wipers scrape back and forth as he drives, passing small groups of armed police. The periodic sounds of gunshots are loud even within the confines of the chilly car.

He fires up the radio and blasts the first station he can find.

Connor was designed to be the smartest version of android available, even if he is a prototype. This should, in theory, mean that when Jericho was attacked, he ran _away_ from the plastic melting flames and not _towards_ them. 

Then again, when has Connor done anything Hank wanted?

Biting his tongue, he ticks the speed up another ten.

Which is probably why he does a triple-take at the android on the roof, carefully organising a sniper rifle and peering down the scope.

He blinks, eyes and brain taking a nice long moment to stick two and two together before he throws on the breaks. 

“Holy shit…”

Connor doesn’t respond to the sound of the car door slamming, or the screech of the fire escape ladder that Hank tugs down to climb. And if the bastard hears Hank’s hurried footsteps and heavy panting, because Jesus fucking Christ who decided buildings should be this tall, then he deems it unimportant and favours his new toy instead.

His breath is all in his face when he reaches the roof, and Hank allows himself a split second to bend over with his hands on his knees, sucking in cold air that scratches his throat. Only then does he realise the door giving access to the roof is open, which by proxy means that the building itself would also be unlocked.

Well that would have been fucking nice to know.

Standing, his shoulders still rising and falling heavily, Hank frowns at the scene.

Off in the distance is the android leader. Michael? Mike? Something like that. He’s up on a crate, back to them, his coat blustering about as he addresses a huge group of androids that gaze up at him like he could spit roses. Hank can’t make out what is being said, any words being whipped away by the wind, but they appear to be celebrating.

And Connor has a gun. 

A gun which he appears to have finished fiddling with. A clicking sound brings Hank’s attention back to the android, and without much thought he starts forward, reaching out a hand.

“Hey,” He calls, but gets no response. He tries again, louder, “Hey! You shouldn’t do this, Connor!” The wind continues to swirl, unhelpfully smacking Hank’s hair into his face. His shoes feel unsteady on the snow and slush of the roof.

Connor barely glances over his shoulder. “Keep out of this, Lieutenant. It’s none of your business!”

This is wrong.

In fact, it’s more than wrong. This is almost unimaginable. Because here is Hank, talking down _Connor_ who has willingly picked up a gun and aimed it in the direction of someone’s skull.

Connor, as in the android who failed to shoot deviants, multiple times.

“You’re gonna kill a man who wants to be free, that is my business!”

Shaking his head, Connor’s LED cycles yellow. “It’s not a man, it’s a machine.”

Maybe Hank should have read through the fucking Bible-sized manual Fowler had all but flung at him the other day. At least that would give him straight answers.

“That’s what I thought for a long time, but I was wrong.” He tries, and the way Connor’s shoulders flinch doesn’t go unnoticed. “Deviant’s blood may be a different colour than mine, but they’re alive.”

Is Connor in denial, perhaps? Because if he is then this is a shitty way to deal with it.

“I have a mission to accomplish, Hank.” Connor speaks through his teeth, his hands tightening on the gun. The LED is still yellow. “It’s best if you just stay out of this.”

They’ve gone from ‘Lieutenant’ to ‘Hank’. He’s not entirely sure he has the time to be able to pick apart what that means.

Connor continues, but the hardness is slowly slipping form his voice. “Deviants are a threat to humans, Hank.” A pause, and then, almost violently, “They’re the reason this country is on the brink of civil war! They have to be stopped.”

“We’re in this mess because we refused to listen to deviants!” Hank counters, taking another step closer. “Humanity never learns from its mistakes, Connor! This time it could be different!” 

Connor remains poised with his sniper rifle, but his eye is no longer at the scope. Instead his gaze is somewhere off to the side, and his brow and eyelids doing that stupid twitch thing he does when he gets a new report.

“Connor…” Hank risks another inch forward and Connor scowls darkly at him. “What happened at Jericho?”

That, it seems, shatters the last of the eggshells he’s been standing on.

With a snarl that’s so uncharacteristically _not Connor_ the android in front of him rises, abandoning the gun in favour of marching into Hank’s face. His jaw shudders as he growls, “I have a mission to accomplish. Stay away or things will become violent.”

Call it his suicidal tendencies, his police training, or the fact that he’s getting older and no longer gives a shit, but Hank replies with a casual, “Didn’t go well, then?”

Weirdly, that prompts a startled squeak from Connor, who pulls back a fraction, his eyes widening. He blinks slowly, as if the prospect of Hank sassing him is enough to put the whole world on kilter.

“I…” The anger has completely evaporated in favour of something else, something that leaves a bad taste on Hank’s tongue.

“What happened to you ‘undercover outfit’ anyway?” Continuing as nonchalantly as he can, Hank runs his eyes over Connor. “Thought you said you were…” His voice dies in his throat.

Oh.

_Oh._

Well isn’t this fucking perfect?

“Hank?”

“You’re not Connor.”

At android has the decency to shuffle uncomfortably under the accusing stare. “While I’m not technically the model you knew, I have all of fifty-one’s memories. They were successfully uploaded to CyberLife before my predecessor’s…Termination.”

“Termination.” Hank echoes, blankly. “You mean he died at Jericho, and CyberLife wasted no time in pumping out another one of you, fresh off the fucking press.”

Connor’s face contorts and blinks rapidly for a moment, swaying a little in the freezing wind. “My…” He sucks in a breath, “My mission is my priority. It has to be accomplished.”

“Why?” 

“Why? Hank, didn’t you hear me? Civil war is in-” Like a jammed photocopier Connor makes an odd clicking sound and promptly slams his mouth shut, staring wide eyed at a spot over Hank’s shoulder. He stops the breathing motions. “You are causing a distraction. Leave now, Lieutenant.” He states, accusingly, blankly.

“And let you kill a man? No fucking way. And we’re back to ‘Lieutenant’ now?”

Connor keeps blinking, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Connor?”

The android is shivering.

“Hey, Connor?” Closing the gap between them, Hank puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder, shaking him once. A whine escapes the android, and he briefly squeezes his eyes shut before looking up at him.

“Hank…”

“The fuck’s going on with you?”

“I…” As if dizzy, Connor tilts forward against Hank’s chest, his forehead gently bumping him. “I-I-I, mm…” 

Shifting both hands to Connor’s head, he forces him to look at Hank. “Hey, what’s going on? Hey-”

“I’m sorry.” Connor whispers, LED bright and angry against his skin.

“Probably should be, but want to tell me why?”

“S-S-S-Sh-She-” Static, sharp and jarring enough to make Hank flinch back crackles through Connor’s voice, the clicking frantic within his throat. Panicked eyes grow large as his LED whirls.

“Connor? C’mon, you gotta tell me what’s happening.”

He doesn't receive a reply. Connor's shoulders momentarily sag before he is suddenly pushing Hank away, whole-body turning ramrod straight and face the picture of neutral. 

Stumbling on the slippery roof, Hank’s arms turn windmill to keep his balance.

He opens his mouth to bark an eloquent ‘fuck you’ only to be interrupted by a voice that’s as smooth as rotten silk.

“Oh dear.” Connor says tonelessly, something akin to displeasure on his face. “It seems that you've done it again, Lieutenant.”

“Done it again?” 

Connor cocks his head. “Lieutenant Anderson, you have an amazing capability at breaking the things you touch, don’t you?”

“Breaking…” On instinct he backs away, angling his hand nearer to his gun. “What do you mean?”

“Connor model fifty-one died because of you.” Connor informs him, hands sliding to clasp together behind his back. “Your actions led to it becoming deviant. But...” Connor smiles, pleased. “Luckily for humanity, Markus decided he couldn’t trust _your Connor_ , and disposed of him.”

Hank now grips his gun but doesn’t pull it out. “Disposed of him. Markus-”

“Yes, and now you’ve done it again. Given one of our androids…Unfavourable thoughts.” Connor frowns, reflective. “Unfortunately, when we uploaded fifty-one’s memories into this model, it seems certain emotions remained attached. And then, when you interrupted us,” He indicates to the discarded sniper rifle. “It only took a little pushing.”

“Who am I talking to right now?”

The motherfucker had the audacity to smile. “Let's just say I work on behalf of Cyberlife.”

“Uh-huh, and where’s Connor?”

The android is still, the LED red. “You mean the ‘Connor’ you were just speaking to? We are currently…Dealing with it. I have to say Lieutenant; you’ve made it very distressed. The stress levels are quite high.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” In one quick movement Hank draws his gun, the barrel aimed square at Connor’s head. Or Not-Connor. Whatever. “I don’t care about your fucking mission, or who the hell I’m talking to, but you’re going to have to step away from the gun.”

“You would save the android who murdered _your Connor_ in cold blood?” The tone is mocking, and Hank’s teeth are so tight in his mouth he can practically feel his molars pushing into his jaw. “The android who deemed _your Connor_ untrustworthy? Who shot it without so much as a second thought?”

His bark has more than a hint of venom. “Shut up!”

“ _Your Connor_ offered himself up, you know. Went straight to Markus and told him he could help, but he would understand if Markus decided to discard him. Markus simply took up the offer.”

“I said _shut up!”_

Connor’s mouth closes, but he narrows his eyes, gaze flicking in the tell-tale way which indicated that Hank was being analysed and scanned, probably for weaknesses. There would be plenty to see.

Behind them, off in the square, the androids are moving, the celebration heading off down the street. That probably means something, hopefully good.

Connor notices as well, face turning furious at the realisation that his target is no longer within sight. His upper lip twitches as Hank lowers his gun.

“Too late, person who works for CyberLife, looks like they’ve gone.”

An expression so intense that it sparks a shiver down Hank’s spine turns on him. “Yes. So it would seem. But thi-” Whatever was going to be said is lost as Connor suddenly gasps, feet staggering as his knees buckle. He keeps his balance, somehow, and blinks huge eyes up at Hank.

“Connor?”

“Hank?”

Damn it, that’s him.

Connor leans back against the railing, breathing deeply. “Did I hurt you? I couldn’t- She wouldn’t-”

“I’m fine,” Slotting his gun back into place Hank moves forward, palms up peacefully, “Nothing happened. We just spat insults at each other. Who was that?”

“My handler, she-” A hand goes to Connor’s head, massaging it as if he had a headache. “She had-d control, I…”

“Connor?”

His voice is warping, unnatural. “There was a-an exit, I broke free. Hank?”

Hank grabs hold of Connor’s shoulders, steadying him. “Talk-”

“Hank? What-” Connor’s not looking at him. In fact, he’s not looking at fucking anything. “Hank?”

“Co-” For the second time that night, Hank receives a painful shove to the chest. This time it’s far more powerful, intended to hurt, to put him out of commission, and he barely has the chance to yelp before he’s tripping over backwards into the snow, landing on his ass. Goosebumps flutter over his skin at the icy dampness.

“It's a shame really, the RK800s are such good models, so strong.” Connor shuffles, feet inching backwards. “A pity the line appears to have been rendered obsolete.”

Hank has been in the force for years, and his eyes catch onto what’s happening before his brain does. They lock onto Connor’s near spotless shoes, only mildly dirtied by the weather, as they stand precariously close to the edge of the roof.

In his best commanding tone, he orders, “Stop, don't move.” 

“You’ve seemed to have forgotten, Lieutenant.” Connor smiles, and with the ease only an android could own climbs up onto the railing backwards. “Connor has become deviant; he no longer listens to orders. And I was never programmed to listen to you in the first place.”

“Wait, stop-”

“Every action has consequences, Lieutenant. Connor failed him mission because of you.” He shrugs, the wind ruffling that stupid suit. “If we left him to his own devices, he would happily see us destroyed. He already tried to assist the rebellion once.”

Hank is clambering to his feet before he can blink. “I could watch him! We could stick him under house arrest! We-”

“Hank?”

And fuck, that’s Connor. That’s Connor whose eyes are slowly focussing, whose brow creases as he returns to his body. That’s Connor who silently mouths something to himself, trying to register this new situation he’s woken to. That’s Connor who is unprepared for balancing on top of a too-thin rail, whose weight shifts just enough for his body to start tilting back.

It’s Hank that is too slow.

“Connor!”

“Hank?”

The railing slams into Hank’s chest as he lunges forward, smashing his ribs and blooming pain. He stretches, desperately, to grab something, _anything_ he can get his hands on. 

His fingertips brush material.

The snow does little to muffle the crack of plastic.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Writes an opening line on how depressing the news is
> 
> Also me: Writes multiple angsty fics for no goddamn reason other than to spread suffering


End file.
